


I can't fix what was done to you (but I'll shield you from the rain)

by yeeharley



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Gun Violence, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Harley Keener, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and gets a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25784527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeeharley/pseuds/yeeharley
Summary: Harley had never been inside of Peter's head, but he caught snippets of breakdowns and panic attacks. He knew his boyfriend's past, knew about the awful things that had happened to bring him to the point that he was at. He had no idea how big Peter's darkness was.All he knew was that it was growing rapidly, and no matter how hard Peter beat it back with his metaphorical baseball bat, it kept encroaching on the bright parts of his brain. The parts of his brain that made Peter the person he was.The worst thing about it was that Harley didn't know how to help. All he could do was watch as Peter slowly deteriorated, crumbling under the pressure of protecting an entire city. Watch as his under-eye bags grew bigger and darker, as he worried at his bottom lip to the point of drawing blood, as he became pale and thin and tired.He didn't know what he was going to do.And he had to figure something out before it was too late.(Almost anything, no matter how strong, can break under the right amount of stress. When Peter breaks, shattering under the weight of his responsibilities, Harley is there to pick up the pieces and put them back together.)
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Harley Keener
Comments: 8
Kudos: 136





	I can't fix what was done to you (but I'll shield you from the rain)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ironxprince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironxprince/gifts).



> dedicated to ironxprince, as usual, because she's amazing and deserves everything in the world and also because she recced me the song used both in the title and the last scene (small hands by radical face)
> 
> my tumblr: silver-bubbles
> 
> Dear, I don't know if you ever go back and reread my gifts for you. I reread yours. Please wait for me. 🖤

There was a darkness in Harley's head, lurking in a back corner like a wolf getting ready to pounce the minute he showed any sign of weakness. It had appeared when his dad had first showed signs of leaving, of extra anger and drinking and the bad things that came before the inevitable fall. He'd let it take him for a little while. Let it cover his mind like a creeping vine, an ivy, and hadn't thought once to cut it back.

Then, Abby had started to fall apart, and he had burned it away with a fiery passion. His mother didn't know how to take care of her own darkness, so Harley had to take care of his so that Abby wouldn't have to learn.

So it stayed in that back corner, carefully trained to stay and obey. Harley was stronger than his mother and his sister, and he knew what he needed to do to take care of his family where his father had failed.

He was stronger _because_ of his darkness. He could use it to better himself, to learn from his mistakes and avoid making them again.

Harley's monster was manageable.

Peter's, he knew, was not.

Harley had never been inside of Peter's head, but he caught snippets of breakdowns and panic attacks. He knew his boyfriend's past, knew about the awful things that had happened to bring him to the point that he was at. He had no idea how big Peter's darkness was.

All he knew was that it was growing rapidly, and no matter how hard Peter beat it back with his metaphorical baseball bat, it kept encroaching on the bright parts of his brain. The parts of his brain that made Peter the person he was.

The worst thing about it was that Harley didn't know how to help. All he could do was watch as Peter slowly deteriorated, crumbling under the pressure of protecting an entire city. Watch as his under-eye bags grew bigger and darker, as he worried at his bottom lip to the point of drawing blood, as he became pale and thin and _tired._

He didn't know what he was going to do. 

And he had to figure something out before it was too late.

❖

It's four in the morning when Peter hears the distress call, picks it up off of the police scanner he's hacked and connected into Karen's mainframe. He's swinging around somewhere in Queens, too tired to pay attention to street names even though this is his home and his borough, after stopping three muggings and a few attempted car thefts. Efficient, quick, done and done and out _way_ past his curfew.

He's starting to feel the exhaustion, too, letting it seep into his bones and weigh him down. Sometimes, it doesn't take that long to set in, and that's how he knows to keep going. When he's tired, though, it gets hard for him to keep moving.

"Peter," Karen says, her cheerily monotonous voice ringing through the speakers in his mask. "There's a report of an armed robbery at Delmar's bodega."

"Are the police on their way?" He asks, yawning tiredly. He wants to help, but he doesn't know if he's up for another robbery this early in the morning, especially with the way he's feeling right now. All he wants to do is head back to the Tower and catch a few hours of sleep with Harley before he has to be at school.

"No," Karen says. "The situation is escalating rapidly and the police are not mobilizing fast enough to stop injury."

Peter does an abrupt one-eighty, almost fast enough to give him whiplash. "Plot the fastest route to the bodega and send a message to the police. Let them know I'm on my way, tell them to get there as fast they can. Potential homicide."

"Will do, Peter. Plotting course now."

"Put it up on my visual. Now."

She does as she's told. A green map of Queens pops up on the left side of his visual display, connecting a pair of dots, one of which is moving. He knows that the latter is him, and the one on the other end of the glowing red line is Delmar's. 

He's been going there since he was fourteen, just after Ben died, when he'd had to start walking to school by himself and dealing with his own lunches and taking care of himself. Delmar has always been kind to him, giving him free bags of sugar-coated gummy worms and letting him pet his cat. Peter doesn't know if Delmar's the one in danger, but he _does_ know that all of his kids work there and, sometimes, Delmar's youngest son works nights. 

He loves his family more than anything. He knows how it feels to lose them, and he doesn't want anyone else to have to experience what he has if it can be avoided. 

"How long's it going to take me to get there?" Peter asks, already moving and short of breath. "Give me specific times, Karen."

"Two minutes at your fastest," Karen says. "I don't see any way you can get there any faster than that."

Peter takes a deep breath, kicking off the side of a nearby building and spiraling into a dive between a spotlight and a parked semi-truck. "Watch me."

He moves fast, faster than he ever has, Karen giving him regular updates through the mask. His heart is pounding in his ears like a sledgehammer, so loud and hard that it hurts, because she's telling him that it's escalating faster and faster and it's getting worse.

"The gunman has turned off the video cameras," Karen says quietly as Peter rounds the corner of a large apartment building and swings under the nearest overpass. "I can no longer access security feeds from the bodega."

"Tap into any microphones in the building!" Peter shouts desperately. "Karen, get me any information you can!"

"I'm sorry, Peter." She sounds genuinely remorseful. "There are no active microphones and I don't have enough time or autonomy to hack into any that could be inactive." Then, again, "I can no longer access security feeds from the bodega."

"Karen, come _on,_ tell me what I'm heading into-"

"Peter," she says, and he has to slow his breathing to hear her. "You are having a panic attack. If you don't calm down and still choose to go into this fight, I'll have to contact Mister Stark and your aunt."

_Oh. Suddenly, the tightness in his chest, the quickness of his breathing, and the way his head is spinning all make sense._

He really needs to calm down if he wants to save anybody, let alone avoid dying or scaring Tony.

"Don't contact them," he says, gasping through his nerves and trying desperately to steady his heart rate. "Karen, I swear to God, don't do it."

"You have to calm down or I won't have a choice." Pause. "Mister Keener is awake and wants me to play a message for you."

"Go ahead." Peter's knees ache as he hurtles over a powerline and slams into the awning of a gas station, barely kicking off in time to avoid flattening himself. "Play it and tell him I'm okay."

"Will do." Karen's voice switches over to a fuzzy recording of Harley's, accent thick from the early-morning exhaustion. Peter curses himself for waking him up. 

_"Pete, honey, your heart rate hasn't been this high in a real' long time. I don' know what's happenin', Karen doesn't have permission to tell me anything, but I can tell you're scared."_ A yawn. _"You gotta calm down for me, baby. You gotta come home to me. I love you."_

The recording cuts out there, but Harley's voice echoes through Peter's brain like he's still there. He murmurs a quiet, "I love you, too," even though he knows Harley can't hear him.

He's going to tell him when he comes home after rescuing whoever's stuck at the bodega, anyway.

"Your pulse has calmed down significantly and is well within my preprogrammed boundaries," Karen says. "There is no more information on the bodega. Police are en route, but there have been reports of a gunshot made by residents of the surrounding neighborhood."

"ETA?" Peter snaps, breathless. "Give me an ETA."

"You are less than a block away from Delmar's bodega, Peter."

His heart rate is rising yet again, but he doesn't have time to stop and calm himself down. Peter hits the ground running as soon as he's within view of the bodega, pushing himself as fast as he physically can, breaths coming in quick bursts. His lungs hurt, his chest hurts, his legs are _screaming_ and his muscles are burning, but he pushes himself faster and faster until he's at the door.

Peter flies through the glass feet-first, regardless of the glass shattering, and has both of his webshooters up and ready. "Put your hands up!" He screams, voice raw, and looks around frantically in a desperate attempt to find the robber. _"Put your hands up!"_

No reply. His spider-sense lies dormant in the back of his mind, right beside the hungry monster, unconcerned with any danger around him.

If there even is any.

Peter takes deep, rattling breaths as he carefully moves around the store, brushing past display racks and tables. Some of the chairs are pushed over, and one of the shelves near the back has toppled, sending backs of Lays and Doritos scattering across the floor.

"Hello?" Peter asks. His voice echoes around the building. "H-hello?"

_Something is wrong._

The tangy smell of blood filters through the mask as he steps toward the counter, strong and fresh and there's so much of it. He presses a hand over his nose, closing his eyes momentarily, dreading what he's about to see.

He doesn't want to know.

_Deep down, he already does._

Delmar's second son, Thomas, is on the ground behind the counter. He's lying there, spread-eagled and face-down on the linoleum floor, and if it wasn't for the puddle of blood beneath his head, Peter would think he's sleeping.

Peter knows better.

He picks his way around the counter as carefully as his can. Tears prick at his eyes as he bends down, crouching on the balls of his feet, and gently turns Thomas over before turning and _vomiting._

There's a bullet hole in the man's head. His eyes are open, barely clouded over with death.

He's only been dead for a minute or so.

If Peter had moved faster, he could've saved him. He could've saved him, just like he could've saved Ben.

_It's his fault._

He doesn't notice that he's moving, doesn't see the way he rips the back door open and scales the side of the bodega with superhuman speed. Doesn't know how he finds himself on top of the Tower. Can't hear Karen trying to bring him back, doesn't answer the incoming calls from Tony, Harley, or May, isn't even present in his own mind until he's ripping the mask off of his face and throwing it aside.

Nausea forces itself up and out of his throat in the form of even more bile. He falls to all fours, holding himself up by an elbow, and hurls all over Tony's roof. He can't get those eyes out of his head, can't stop thinking about how he could've saved Thomas if he had been only a minute or two earlier. Thomas Delmar's blood is on his hands.

He has _so much blood on his hands._

The monster surges forward with a strength that Peter has never felt before. It ravages his mind, ripping through everything it can get its claws into. He can't think, can't _breathe,_ can only watch as it spreads to the rest of his body and slowly takes him over, incapacitating every single thing inside him until the only thing he can feel is an awful nothing.

There is _nothing._

He is _nothing._

❖

Harley gets the alert a few minutes after he's sent Peter his message. He figures it might help him a bit, because he can tell that his boyfriend is having a hard night. It doesn't happen very often- Peter is probably the strongest person he knows- but Harley knows that his messages always make him feel better, even when he's not doing well.

He's gotten used to sending them a couple of times a month, just to check up and make sure Peter knows someone's thinking about him. He knows that, if he was in that situation, he'd want Peter to do the same for him.

Harley had headed to the kitchen after sending it, had started on a few cups of tea for himself, Peter, and Tony, and had just sat down to drink his when his phone had lit up with a bright red banner that Harley had only seen once. It had been when Peter had been _stabbed_ in a back alley.

_Code Black._

_Code Black._

_Code Black._

And, just below the blinking words, a location.

_Stark Tower._

Harley practically throws his mug in his haste to get out of his seat. He's running as fast as he can, dashing up four levels of stairs, heart pounding harder than he's ever felt. 

"Details, FRIDAY!" He shouts, knowing that she can tell him exactly what's happening. FRIDAY has eyes on everything within a three-mile radius of the tower, and if Peter's on the roof, she'll know. "Tell me what's going on!"

The lights blink once to show him she's listening before she responds. "Mister Parker is dissociating. He is in no imminent danger of physical injury, but he is in extreme distress. He may also be experiencing a panic attack."

Harley swears under his breath. He's had panic attacks, but never at the same time as dissociating- come to think of it, he's never really dissociating. His train of thought goes straight to the darkness; Peter's never had a breakdown this severe, and Harley knows he hasn't been getting the attention or closure he needs. 

_God,_ and Harley _knows_ how awful Peter's mind can be. He doesn't, however, know if he's equipped to deal with something on this level, but Tony's upstate and May can't possibly get there fast enough.

He has to move.

Two more flights of stairs and Harley's at the door to the roof. He takes every step with a force that shoots up into his knees, lightning through cables, water through pipes. Adrenaline rushes through his veins like cars on a highway, ever moving, never stopping. He runs like he's never going to stop, bounding around the last two landings and hurtling toward the last door with a conviction as strong as a vice.

Peter is _on_ _his own_ on the roof of a skyscraper in the middle of a major mental breakdown. Harley knows how it feels to watch helplessly as you crumble from the inside out. Knows that, when you can't seem to get yourself under control, you do things you later regret.

He's not about to let Peter hurt himself, voluntary or not. 

Harley rears his leg back and kicks the doorknob straight in. The door swings back onto the roof, barely clinging to its hinges despite Tony's desperate attempt to villain-proof the tower, and Harley rushes out to the rooftop. He's moving so quickly that he can barely stop himself in time to avoid stumbling over some of May's flowerboxes- she'd moved them from their apartment after realizing they weren't getting enough sun- and whipping around to look for his boyfriend.

"Peter?" He shouts, voice ringing through the empty night. "Peter, darlin', I need you to answer me!"

Nothing. It's pretty stupid, Harley thinks, to try and get someone in the middle of a violent panic attack and dissociating episode to answer, especially now that he's thinking about it.

"FRI," he snaps, not bothering with formalities, "give me Peter's location. Now."

"Mister Parker is behind the guardhouse," FRIDAY rattles off. "His conditioning is worsening. He has vomited several times."

If Harley was in less of a rush, he would probably yell at Tony's AI about how she's supposed to tell him about that kind of thing _when_ it's happening, not after. But that's something that can be fixed with a few hours of programming work later on, when Peter isn't in danger and hurting the way he is.

Harley's moving before FRIDAY finishes her assessment, jogging as quickly as he can without worrying about falling over the numerous crates Tony's left lying around. The guardhouse is at the northwestern corner of the Tower, and they mainly use it for storage and the occasional game of hide-and-seek. He hasn't been up here in a while, but he can find his way around just as efficiently as he could back in Rose Hill.

He can hear Peter's ragged breathing before he actually sees him, and it's nearly enough to bring him to tears. It sounds like the younger boy can barely pull air into his lungs; the struggle is tangible and Harley actually feels a pressure on his chest as he moves closer and closer to the source of the gasping.

And there he is, nestled between the side of the guardhouse and what looks like a damaged Iron Man suit (it probably needs to be kept in some sort of deep storage instead of out here, where anyone else can take it, but now isn't the time to worry about that sort of thing). Peter's curled up on his side, hands grasping desperately at the neck of his suit and his chest like alleviating the pressure of his suit will make it easier to breathe. 

He's not wearing his mask, so Harley can see the desperate look in his eyes, the tear tracks dripping down the side of his face and into his curls. There's a single teardrop hovering at the end of his nose in the moonlight, shimmering like a diamond before it falls, splashing to the pavement to join what looks like hundreds of its siblings.

The way that Peter's knees are curled up to his chest makes Harley think about the way a spider curls its legs into its chest just before it dies, and that image is enough to snap him out of his shock faster than he's ever reacted to anything. Ignoring the puddle of bile lying a few feet away from Peter's face, he closes the space between them, sliding to his knees and reaching down to take his boyfriend by the shoulders.

Peter doesn't react. His breathing continues to rattle, and his face, in the ghostly light of early morning, is bone pale. Harley can count the freckles dotting his cheeks and nose, glistening with tears.

" _Peter,"_ he says again, shifting around so that he can grip Peter under the arms and pull him into a more secure position- head on his lap, flipped onto his back so he can breathe. "Peter, honey, please talk to me."

Unsurprisingly, Peter says nothing. A terrible whimper wrenches its way out of his mouth, so heartbroken and pained that Harley actually does cry. For the first time in years, he doesn't fight it; he just lets the stinging in his eyes drip down his cheeks like he's releasing pressure from a teakettle.

"You've gotta talk to me," Harley says again. "I know you're scared, and you probably can't hear me, but I need you to come back to me. _Please,_ darlin'."

Peter's fingers weakly curl around the spider insignia on his chest, scrabbling at it like he's trying to rip it apart. Harley gets the message and gently places his left hand on the warm fabric, splaying his own fingers across Peter's chest and pressing gently. The suit releases like a parachute and he peels it away, stopping at his waist and leaving Peter's chest exposed.

His breathing steadies a bit, then, replaced by gentle shivering in the chilly night air. It's not rattly or gasping anymore; it's almost like the removal of that extra layer took a sort of weight off of his chest.

Harley strips his jacket off and, gently lifting Peter off of his lap, pulls it over his hands and shoulders before laying him back down. His eyes are closed, now, and his face has a sort of flush about it that had been missing earlier. A bit of color that makes Harley a little less worried.

"There we go, honey. Breathe for me," he croons, brushing his hands through brown curls and over soft skin. "Just breathe for a moment."

Peter nods, but the movement is shaky and uncertain. He's still very much in the throes of a panic attack, but he's responding.

Harley thinks back to what his mother used to do when he cried back in Rose Hill after being bullied or ignored. She'd card her hands through his hair and tell him to breathe and rock him back and forth and, sometimes, when he was in a particularly bad place, she'd sing.

_Sing._

He knows his voice isn't exceptional, but he's been told it isn't half-bad. Peter's probably not going to care if he sounds like he knows what he's doing, anyways. He thinks for a moment, still brushing his boyfriend's curls away from his face, trying to figure out what he would want to hear if he was in the same position.

It comes to him quickly, and he knows, because it's what his mother sang to him and it never failed to help him feel better. He tasks a deep breath, clearing the tears from his throat and knowing that if Peter remembers this, he's never going to live it down.

And he sings.

_Well, the world might cut you down again, but you know the way back home_

_And your best might not be good enough, but just know you're not alone  
_

_And if you slip and lose your way again, well, I know that you will be alright_

_You've still gotta try._

Harley's accent means that he draws things out too long in some spots and doesn't pronounce everything, which throws his rhythm off a bit, but he doesn't stop. No matter how stupid he feels, he keeps singing and singing, making his way through the song with the sturdy pace of a train.

Peter starts to relax somewhere in the second verse, tilts his head back against Harley's left thigh so that his neck is exposed and Harley can't comfortably mess with his curls. He gets the message and, without pausing for breath, moves the fingers of his right hand to stroke the spot just below Peter's jaw, index behind his ear and thumb moving steadily along the curve of his neck. 

Peter turns to water then, sagging completely against Harley's legs and letting out the deepest sigh he's ever heard. Harley ignores the twitching of his lip and continues to quietly sing, enjoying the way Peter's breathing has steadied and he seems to be present again.

"You scared me, Peter," he says when he's finished with his song. "You wanna tell me what happened?"

Peter just shakes his head and nestles further into Harley's embrace, twisting to wrap both of his arms around his waist in a sort of hug. "No' yet, Harls," he yawns. "No' yet."

"Alright. You don't have to."

A cold breeze flutters across the rooftop. Harley and Peter look up in tandem to see a wave of dark clouds rolling in from the west. They can see the rain falling in sheets, heavy and pounding, washing over the horizon in a dark watercolor.

"You wanna go to bed?" Harley asks softly as Peter nods again. "I can tell you're tired."

"Don' wanna sleep alone."

And if nothing else from that night has broken Harley's heart, he knows that it's shattered now. "You don't have to, honey," he says, pushing himself to his feet and lifting Peter with him. They shift around until Harley has securely. Peter in a bridal carry.

And they're walking away from the coming storm, away from cold and dark and rain. Away from gunshots and empty eyes and blood.

Away from monsters that bite with teeth of hatred and desperation and fear.

Toward the soft glow of a welcoming golden sun. 

A welcoming golden love.


End file.
